


Different Plans

by littlehollyleaf



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: (in the past - implied not graphic), Angst, Bittersweet, Body Horror, Coda, Comfort Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Episode Related, Episode: s05e07 Ace Chemicals, Fade to Black, Hurt/Comfort, It's been a bad day, M/M, Medical Trauma, Missing Scene, Morning After, Psychological Trauma, foxy is a little out of sorts, nygmobblepot subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 03:56:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17911565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehollyleaf/pseuds/littlehollyleaf
Summary: Set during S05E07 'Ace Chemicals.' Oswald is not the only one who comes to visit Ed that evening.





	Different Plans

**Author's Note:**

> thanks as always to [Daisiestdaisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doyle/pseuds/Daisiestdaisy) for being my personal Foxy/scientific adviser - credit for the science/maths trivia goes to her

“Ow.”

The scissors slip down Ed’s gloved fingers, blades catching the back of his neck.

“Ow.”

He adjusts his grip and starts again, twisting in front of the mirror to try and get a better look, but he’s incapable of turning far enough while still keeping his eyes on the glass. Stupid. Should have found a second mirror but he just – he needs to get this _done_. _Now_. _This instant._

He promised Oswald he’d have a way out of Gotham ready for them by morning but he can’t think like this. It's too much. He _can’t_ _stand it_.

His next attempt misses its mark in spectacular fashion.

“Ow, ow, ow!”

“What are you doing?”

Ed spins round at the question, brandishing his scissors at the voice. For Heaven’s sake, is his evening to be plagued with interruptions?

“Stay back!” he yells, cursing himself for leaving his gun on the table. “I have the whole floor wired,” he improvises as a threat. “All I need to do is press –” He feels about inside his jacket with his free hand, nearly ripping the inner pocket in his hurry to extract the device inside. “– _this_ button –” He waves the gadget before him, thumb poised above the white button in question. “– and whoever and wherever you are, you’re toast!”

As he peers into the candlelit gloom a familiar figure steps out from among the bookshelves.

“I would much prefer it if you didn’t do that.”

“Lucius?”

Lucius Fox steps up to the table between them and waits, hands raised. Like Oswald before him he seems unruffled by Ed’s threats, but he’s also respectful enough to face them head on and to keep his distance, so he has that in his favour.

“I warned you before about sneaking up on people,” Ed snaps, releasing the last of his fading adrenaline with the words.

“So you did,” Lucius notes, palms tilting in further surrender. “My mistake.”

Geared up for fight or flight the submission and apology throw Ed for a second.

“Yes. Well. Exactly,” he mutters.

There’s an awkward pause as Lucius continues to stand there, unspeaking, long enough for Ed to grow impatient. Can’t the man get on with it, whatever he wants? Then Lucius flicks his eyes from Ed to the white button beneath his thumb and back and quirks an eyebrow, hands lifting up and out in question.

Right. Yes. He’s still threatening Lucius with electrocution.

With a tut Ed pockets the broken doorbell he’d stolen the other day for just such an emergency as this and lowers his scissors, irritation mitigated somewhat by the fact Lucius had failed to see through his bluff. This is why he’s only the second smartest.

Lucius drops his arms and, while he keeps it quick and quiet to try and hide it, Ed catches him sigh in relief.

The idea that he’d made Lucius afraid doesn’t bolster Ed like it should do. He feels bad about it. Maybe even sorry for it. Which increases his frustration.

“If Jim sent you to recruit me for more team building shenanigans,” he says. “Then you can tell him thanks but no thanks.” He throws up a hand, forgetting the scissors. Fortunately he’s agile enough to avoid stabbing himself in the eye. “I’ve done my part. My erstwhile puppeteer is dead now, so I hear.” Ed stops to grin. “Please tell your _Captain_ I am delighted to know his killer instincts are still on point.” He touches the forefinger and thumb of his free hand together and holds them up. Lucius probably won’t pass on the message, but it might sew a little kernel of doubt in him about his less than wholesome superior, which will be satisfying enough. It’s always fun to bring Jim ‘Gotham’s hero’ Gordon down a peg or two. “As to my puppeteer's puppeteer, they have been unmasked and are awaiting a similarly inevitable, if less personally gratifying, punishment. Thanks to your technical...” He pauses. Lucius' skill in hacking the chip and broadcasting the signal to the mainland was undeniable. “Expertise,” he acknowledges with a nod and a butterfly flutter of warmth fills his chest when Lucius cracks half a smile in response. “So,” he goes on, shaking himself back together. “My revenge is complete. And I see no reason to risk my neck for any ‘greater good’ nonsense. Our alliance is officially at an end.”

He punctuates the statement by adjusting his glasses at the side. An informal dismissal.

One that Lucius chooses to ignore.

And yet he somehow manages to turn the insolence of his persistence on its head by responding –

“That seems perfectly reasonable to me.”

To which Ed can only frown, perplexed, while Lucius follows up by making his way around the table.

“But I am not here at the behest of Jim Gordon,” Lucius explains, pausing a courteous three or four feet away and clasping his hands loosely across his waist. “I came of my own violation. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

That anyone, especially a man as learned as Lucius Fox, imagines he would fall for such a boldfaced lie is ludicrous. Ed couldn’t stop the eruption of laughter if he wanted to.

But instead of cowering, sheepish and exposed, Lucius tilts his head, dark lines forming across his brow.

It’s almost as if –

Ed cuts off.

“Wait. You’re serious?”

Lucius blinks his face clear again, eyebrows lifting, eyes bright and innocent.

Too innocent surely.

“Why do you care?”

Another cloud of confusion passes over the other man.

“Ed,” he starts, voice that deep, easy rhythm Ed doesn’t know if he envies or resents. “Less than a week ago you were subjected to an incredibly invasive medical procedure, _twice_ in as many days. Not to mention the ongoing violation of bodily anatomy. That kind of trauma would take a toll on any–”

“Yes, yes,” Ed interrupts, waving both hands, scissors now safely tucked away in his jacket pocket. This is all very nice subterfuge, but he’d rather skip it and get to the heart of the matter. “But why do you _care?_ ” he presses. “What does it matter to you if I’m traumatised or not?”

He scans Lucius’ face, looking for any sign, even the smallest of tells, that might reveal what significance his well-being holds.

Has Lucius been reprimanded, perhaps, for performing surgery without training? Is he checking for medical complications, afraid he’ll be held accountable? Or has Jim made some kind of bargain with the mainland authorities? One that requires Ed be handed over, alive and well, to facilitate the recently terminated unification? Or do they suspect Strange may have done something more to Ed than installed the chip and sent Lucius to assess the threat?

These are all viable theories. But try as he might Ed can find nothing secretive in Lucius’ gaze, no nervous, guilty twist to his lips. There’s just a softness round his eyes that looks uncomfortably like pity.

“You don’t really expect me to believe this visit was prompted solely by compassion?” Ed scoffs.

“Is that so impossible?” Lucius counters, so terribly, painfully _gentle_.

“In this city?” Ed touches a finger to his lips and lifts his eyes skyward in a mockery of thought. “Hmmm. Let me think.” He rolls his eyes back down and fixes Lucius in the best, most practiced, of his withering glares. “ _Yes_.”

Lucius presses his lips together and nods, but his eyes dim. A blend of sadness and disappointment that makes Ed’s stomach churn.

He remembers how carefully Lucius angled his head to remove the chip. How he’d made a point of finding and testing different pillows to ensure the least discomfort. He’d been cool and efficient during the operation, brisk at times, and Ed knows that despite his reprimand to Barbara he’d messed with Ed’s speech centre that second time on purpose. But his touch had been light as possible and he’d done nothing until he was sure the painkillers he’d procured had kicked in and Ed was ready and willing. All of which Strange had most definitely _not_ offered and, Ed has to concede, was a level of care he isn’t sure he’d have bothered with himself had the situation been reversed.

He remembers too the other man’s parting words on that rooftop. The honest praise. The heartfelt thanks.

And further back. The two of them alone in Lucius’ car. How he’d listened. His advice had been… misguided, but it was offered without judgement.

“But from you…” Ed amends. “Perhaps not.” He licks his lips. When did they get so dry? “You’re too good for Gotham, Lucius,” he adds. “You should have got out while you had the chance.”

Lucius considers this.

“For your sake I’m glad I didn’t,” he answers. “God knows how you’d have tried to remove that chip without me.”

The words are light without being mocking. Joking. But genuine as well.

How does he do that?

How is it he can always say the right thing with little to no effort at all?

“I’d have come up with something,” Ed mutters, trying to sound confident, ending up defensive.

“Hmmm.” Lucius flattens his lips, unconvinced. “Or you’d have tried to hack it out with a pair of scissors.” He nods to the pair in Ed’s pocket. “What _was_ it you we’re trying to do when I arrived?”

He doesn’t have to answer. Lucius is here unasked for and unannounced in his – well, not his home, but his domain at least. Ed doesn’t owe the man anything, certainly not an explanation.

But he remembers Lucius’ hands on the back of his head. Fingertips on his shoulder as Lucius shushed him after the first incision.

Maybe he owes him a little.

“My head itches,” Ed admits. “I was trying to take out the staples.”

For blink Lucius’ calm eyes flair with shock, but when he speaks his voice is as measured as ever.

“I wouldn’t advise that,” he says. “I know they’re crude but they’re vital to your recovery.”

“Are they?” What’s meant as a reasoned argument comes out more like a whine. “You said yourself when you were removing the chip that I was already healing better than you expected.”

“Yes, I did,” Lucius nods. “I can only assume Strange treated your skin with something to accelerate the healing process. But Ed, I said hea _ling_ not healed. It’s going to take at least a week, maybe longer, before it’s safe for you to remove anything.”

A week? That’s seven full days, one hundred and sixty eight hours, ten thousand and eighty minutes of this maddening on again off again itch itch itch that even now is starting up and making Ed’s fingers curl into talons at his sides with the desperate need to rip and tear and scratch until it stops. No that’s unacceptable. He _can’t_ –

“Your hair is very thick at the back,” Lucius continues, his soothing voice a balm to the growing turmoil of Ed’s thoughts. “It’s probably aggravating the wound. That’s why it’s itching.”

Ed takes a breath, fighting the sensation.

Don’t scratch. Don’t scratch. Don’t scratch.

“So you’re saying all I need is a haircut and I’ll be fine?”

“It should help, yes.”

“Okay,” Ed nods, recalculating. Cutting hair should be easier than levering metal from skin. And faster. Giving him more time to work on the escape plan. “Thank you.” That came out more honest than Ed is happy with. “Your compassion has been well received,” he adds, hoping the sarcasm will temper his accidental vulnerability.

Once again Lucius refuses to acknowledge the dismissal.

“You’re planning to do it yourself?” he asks.

He’s judging. But Ed doesn’t feel shamed by it.

How _does_ he do that?

“I’m more than capable.”

Lucius neither confirms nor denies this, he just holds out a hand, palm up.

“Here,” he says, flicking his fingers. An unspoken request. “I’ll do it. It’ll be easier.”

Ed stares at the other man’s hand for what feels like an age. Scissors aren’t technically a weapon, but they can be. And he’s been at the mercy of others for so long, putting himself in another’s hands feels like tying a noose back around his neck.

Agreeing to partner with Oswald was bad enough, but at least the balance of power between them was equal and their arrangement one of logic and mutual gain. Mostly. Probably. No, definitely. It was definitely a business arrangement, nothing else.

And Oswald had been intuitive enough to leave Ed alone once the agreement was finalised. Even if he had seemed oddly reluctant to do so.

This is different. This is – something else.

Ed lifts his gaze to soft eyes. Patient and undemanding. And he remembers a warm palm across his head, the touch of fingers gone the instant their purpose was done.

He draws the scissors from his pocket and hands them over.

If Lucius grasps the magnitude of the gesture he doesn’t show it.

“Do you want to sit down?” he says.

Like Strange had him while the villain stood and tinkered unseen from behind? The agonising buzz of the saw. The pokes and prods that Ed couldn’t see coming but felt like the ram of a hot poker inside him every time.

He shakes his head no.

“Alright,” Lucius nods. Business-like. “Turn around.”

After a quick breath to psyche himself up Ed does so.

It’s only when he jumps at the hand on his shoulder Ed realises how tense he’s become. But anticipation turns to bemusement when Lucius doesn’t so much as touch his hair. Instead he pushes Ed forward, slightly right, forward again, then back a step.

Ed twists his head with a frown, about to ask for clarification when a reflection of the move catches his eye.

He looks forward and his own face blinks back at him, Lucius clearly visible over his shoulder and assessing the reflection with a critical eye. He’s been positioning them in front of the mirror, Ed realises. Which serves no logical purpose for Lucius, who can see the back of Ed’s head perfectly without the glass. Which means this is solely for Ed’s benefit. So he can watch. So he can know what Lucius is about to do to him and when. So he isn't being operated on unawares and without a say in what's being done to him.

“Ready?” Lucius asks, the dusty image of him catching Ed’s eye, and the question is another freedom. Ed has a choice now. He's the one in control of what happens next, or if it happens at all.

Something that’s been tangled and twisted inside him for weeks starts to loosen and Ed feels almost weightless as he nods.

Lucius nods back and lifts the scissors.

“I won’t cut it all, just the parts around the wound. And remember, I’m no barber. Don’t expect anything stylish,” he warns as he brings his free hand to Ed’s hair, lifting different patches and turning his head back and forth as he examines them.

He’s careful, but the movement intensifies the tingle across Ed’s scalp nevertheless.

“It’s fine. Whatever,” Ed hisses.

Don’t scratch. Don’t scratch. Don’t scratch.

Their eyes meet again in the mirror and Lucius must read the urgency in Ed’s expression because he begins in earnest without another word, moving the scissors with confident snip after snip.

He doesn’t look to Ed any more but keeps his full attention on the task in hand. A comforting efficiency.

At first the itching increases with each touch and tug and it’s all Ed can to do endure it. He focuses on biting the dry skin from his lips to distract himself. But at some point he notices his head feels lighter. Cooler. And he starts to relish the tickle of falling hair down his neck because with each drop the need to scratch is ebbing.

So far he’s kept his eyes riveted on Lucius, zeroed in on every rise and fall of his arms, every shift in his gaze, making sure the other man’s focus doesn’t waver and his attention doesn’t grow untoward. But now, as the pain begins to clear, the rhythmic snip, snip, snip and the constant, feather-like brush of fingers grows hypnotic, lulling Ed into a drowsy, dream-like state. His eyes drift shut and he doses, upright though he is, the last of his tension unravelling.

“There.”

The word floats down to Ed from far away and a quick breath on his neck followed by the swipe of clean fabric eases him back to consciousness.

“That’s cleared the worst of it at least.”

Ed blinks his eyes open in time to see Lucius brushing loose hair from his shoulders with a blue handkerchief.

“Feel better?” Lucius asks as he steps away, eyes on the inner fold of his jacket as he tucks the handkerchief inside. The scissors he discards on the table behind them next to Ed’s gun, which Lucius ignores, and the stack of books on remote mines and water currents Ed had been reading before Hugo’s handiwork had driven him to distraction.

It does feel better. The itching is gone and without the weight of so much clumped and greasy hair dragging him down Ed’s head feels clearer in more ways than one.

He lifts a hand behind him and pats around the edges of Strange’s incision. He can feel the staples, but touching them is no worse than prodding any unhealed scab would be. The wound is sore, but not excruciating.

“Yes,” he breathes, stepping closer to the mirror to examine Lucius’ barbering skills, or lack thereof, in more detail.

It’s no disaster. Head on you can’t even notice the difference. The majority of Ed’s hair continues to fall, lacklustre, either side of his face and down his neck, overgrown fringe poking against the rims of his glasses just as before and god it looks awful doesn’t it?

What with everything else going on his appearance has been the least of his concerns lately. Though he has made some effort these past few days – finally cleaned his clothes, found some socks, actually washed. But the hair –

When did it get so _long?_ So _limp?_ So _ragged?_

The Riddler would never allow such a travesty.

Only, he must have done, because he _is_ Riddler. Isn’t he?

Strange hadn’t thought so. He’d called him Ed Nygma and been confused by the thought of Ed as a separate entity. But then, what did that old quack know?

Except, though unethical in his practice, Strange _was_ a credited psychiatrist. Presumably he did know _something_ about the inner workings of the mind. How else could he have manipulated all those inmates at Arkham so thoroughly, even Oswald?

Ed scans his face in the mirror, searching for a familiar posture, a gleam in his eye, a wicked curve about his lips. Anything that might offer a clue to his current identity.

His reflection stares back at him, mimicking each blink and turn of his head exactly as Ed makes them. No flicking in and out of focus, no change of clothes, no mocking commentary only Ed can hear. It’s just him.

Whoever that is.

And Lucius, stepping forward at his side.

“Ed?” he asks, moving round so he blocks the mirror, drawing Ed’s gaze to the reality of him instead. He’s still just ‘Ed’ to Lucius. How curious he’s never questioned that. “ _Are_ you alright?”

The question circles them back to Lucius’ reason for being here. Supposed compassion.

Having already been physically vulnerable with the man, Ed is loathe to expose himself further by allowing Lucius to probe his emotional wounds as well.

“I’m fine,” he answers.

Lucius doesn’t budge. Good lord can’t the man take a hint?

“Given everything you’ve been through, I find that hard to believe.”

“Alright, no, I’m not fine,” Ed tells him, changing tact. “A lot of extremely unpleasant things have happened to me recently and it _sucked_.” He pushes the air between them with his palms, hoping a visual cue might convince Lucius to finally _back off_. “But I’m dealing with it.”

“Are you?”

Ed throws up his hands.

“What do you want from me?” he shrugs. “You want me to collapse in your arms and cry on your shoulder?”

He’d thought to unnerve Lucius with the extreme. In Ed’s experience the very idea of male tears is enough to cause discomfort in most, let alone the act itself. A fact he’d used to advantage more than once.

Except with Oswald, of course, who’s always been shockingly open and in touch with both his own and other’s emotions in a way Ed finds as compelling as he does distasteful.

But Lucius responds with typical, stoic acceptance.

“If you need to,” he says, still refusing to leave or even move from where he’s taken root. A fixed point in the ever changing, topsy turvy funhouse Ed’s life has become.

Something sticks in Ed’s throat as he stares back, eyes prickling at the corners and oh god he actually wants to doesn’t he? Because he knows Lucius means it. Knows he could fall apart without fear because Lucius would hold him safe until it was over.

Warm arms around his shoulders. Calming words in his ear.

It’s a dangerous temptation.

No.

If he breaks down now he might never be able to put himself back together again.

Instead he sniffs and swallows the tears before they can form. If he’s lucky Lucius will interpret the gesture as a sneer.

The man and his kindness are too great a risk tonight. He needs to push Lucius away. Fast.

“What if I need something else?” he asks, stepping closer. “What if my coping mechanisms are a little…” He leans in, twisting his lips up at the side. “Darker?” With a stare as unblinking as he can manage he reaches out and slips a finger beneath Lucius’ tie. “A little more…” He tugs the fabric loose and runs his thumb and forefinger down the length of it. “Carnal?”

To end he stretches his lips in a predatory smile.

That’s got to ruffle the unflappable man’s feathers, surely?

Yes – finally. Lucius takes a breath through his nose and licks his lips. As his mouth opens to answer he even falters and has to try again.

“I… wouldn’t be surprised,” he says, retrieving his tie from Ed's hold and smoothing it back down. He keeps his gloved hand across his chest afterwards and the rise and fall of black leather in time with his breathing grows faster and faster. “But –” His eyes flick up and Ed’s own breath catches. He’s never seen Lucius like this – eyes dark, pupils thick. “If you really think it would help.”

Without knowing how or when or why Ed finds himself close enough to brush the other man’s nose with his own, parted lips moving down while Lucius tilts his head to meet them.

A whole new kind of temptation.

_What?_

Ed reels back, stabbing his glasses tighter against his face with both hands in case this has been some kind of ocular illusion that clearer vision will cure.

No, Lucius is still there, lips still open and inviting, eyes inky and heavy lidded. He blinks at Ed’s absence, a ‘v’ of disappointment forming between his eyebrows. No, not disappointment. It couldn’t be. Could it?

Ed’s skin is burning. If he thought he wanted Lucius’ compassion before it’s _nothing_ compared to the hot, thrumming desire he feels now.

He’d been faking when he made the offer. Obviously. He’s not – he doesn’t even –

But knowing Lucius would _let_ him, that he might actually _want it_ –

“You should leave, Lucius,” Ed gasps, turning away. His hands are shaking so he moves to the table and grips the edge for support. “Before we both do something we’ll regret.”

Because the danger isn’t just to him anymore. This would be more than comfort. Two to tango, as they say. And what would that do to good, kind, caring, compassionate Lucius Fox?

“What makes you think I’d regret it?” Lucius counters, flipping Ed’s perceptions and making his head spin.

This can’t be right.

He whirls round, replacing confusion with suspicion.

“Are you the one with the chip in your head now?!” he snaps, waving a hand at the body part in question. “Seriously…”

The more he thinks about it the more sense this makes. Maybe not a chip, but some other outside influence. Drugs. Hypnosis. Perfume. This is Gotham, there’s plenty to choose from.

Because it’s not just the response to his flirtation, it’s everything.

“I know you’re not dumb, Lucius. But you came here alone and unarmed, in the dark, through a literal war zone. And now you’re propositioning a known criminal? A _murderer?_ ” Ed shakes his head. “What is wrong with you?”

There’s a flash across Lucius’ face – guilt? anger? sadness? pain? – but he drops his head to hide it and takes a moment to adjust the fall of his jacket before he answers.

“What’s wrong with me,” he starts, taking a step closer as he looks up. Then a second. “Is that I performed an autopsy today on a couple who had been surgically altered to look like two of my dearest friends by a madman who also kidnapped and threatened the two men closest to family I have in this city.”

He must mean the latest nonsense the formerly deceased – but then, who isn’t these days? – Jeremiah Valeska had been up to. Ed only knows rumours – something about Bruce Wayne and an explosion at Wayne Manor, word is Tetch was involved as well. He hadn’t heard about this plastic surgery business but it must have been serious if it’s got Lucius rattled.

“What’s wrong with me,” Lucius goes on, voice calm but with an edge to it, like he’s pulling himself taut with each word. Straining already low reserves to breaking point. “Is that less than a week ago I performed brain surgery, with no training and inadequate equipment.” Although he holds himself still his eyes scan Ed’s face in anxious, panicky up and down flicks. “And the number of ways it might have gone wrong are astronomical.”

He’d been afraid of the operation? Ed would never have guessed. He’d been so slick, so proficient. Or – Ed had been distracted by his own fears at the time of course, perhaps he’d misinterpreted. What he’d thought was professional detachment might have been a symptom of something larger. Some hidden apprehension.

He remembers Lucius reprimanding him for moving. Impatience, Ed had thought. But anger is also born of fear. Had Lucius snapped at him out of concern for his safety? His voice had the same biting tension it does now.

“But I had to do it,” Lucius continues. “Because a member of our government had installed a control chip in your head, so they could use you as a scapegoat for their crimes. Crimes which included the slaughter of hundreds of innocent people, including children.”

Even knowing it wasn’t him, not really, who was responsible for Haven, a fresh wave of bile surges up the back of Ed’s throat at the thought of all those people dead by his hand.

Yes, okay, he kills people. But not – not like _that_. Not so many. Not _children_.

Ed swallows. Then swallows again. Trying to wash the reality of the atrocity away just a little longer.

Lucius ignores his struggle and keeps going. A dispassionate recitation that comforts Ed in the way it doesn’t seek to blame. Lucius isn’t passing judgement, not on Ed anyway, he’s merely attempting to account for his behaviour.

“Those people – I lived with them. I worked beside them. Some of them were friends. And all of them were people whose safety I was in part responsible for.”

“But –” Ed cuts in only for Lucius to dismiss the interruption with a shake of his head.

“Jim Gordon was the leader at Haven, yes,” he explains. “But I was the one entrusted to make the complex viable as a refuge. I fixed the generators to give it power. I designed a filtration system to provide clean water. And those oil drums you identified as the cause of the explosion? I’m the reason they were active.” His gaze breaks away and he sucks in his lips. “I can’t help but wonder… if I’d been slightly less efficient, then perhaps…”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Ed tells him, unsettled by the distant, hesitant way Lucius trails off. “Lucius, you aren’t to blame for what happened. Not even remotely.”

It’s a relief when Lucius nods his agreement.

“No,” he says, eyes clear again when he looks back. “No more than you,” he adds, quiet but firm.

For some insane reason, counter to any and all of his fine-tuned instincts of self-preservation, Ed wants to contest this. Wants to explain the flash of memory he’d had in that woman’s apartment.

The weight of the RPG across his shoulder. His eyes on the window taking aim. His hands pulling the trigger. His lungs breathing in the smoke. His. He. Him.

But Lucius holds him silent until the memories fade.

“But even so,” Lucius says, moving them on. “It happened. And for those of us who survived, a sense of guilt, irrational or not, is to be expected.”

This isn’t the dry account of textbook knowledge. There’s a heaviness to the statement that makes Ed think it comes from experience. Whose passing has Lucius already survived, he wonders, that left him guilty?

He can’t even speculate. Beyond the snippets learned during their few, brief encounters, the other man’s life is a mystery.

He’d just cited Turtleneck and his butler as surrogate family here in Gotham, but does Lucius have relations outside the city? Does he have friends besides the usual entourage that accompany his and Ed’s mutual adventures? What about pets? Hobbies? Lovers?

A puzzle, to be sure.

“And this is in addition to the daily madness across the city,” Lucius continues. “The gangs, the turf wars, the dwindling resources, the lack of aid.” He shuts his eyes and releases a long, weary sigh. “So I apologise,” he breathes. Tired. Eyelids slow to lift. “If my behaviour seems out of character. It’s nothing sinister. It’s just that the world seems to get stranger, darker and more illogical by the day and… I’m just trying to find a way to deal with that, the same as everyone else.”

It’s neither a dramatic or glamorous explanation. But it makes sense.

Ed puffs out a sigh of his own. It’s the world that’s messed up, not Lucius.

Foxy is still foxy.

This inspires far greater relief than Ed would have anticipated. When did the psychological wellbeing of Lucius Fox become such an important constant to him exactly?

“So…” Ed circles a hand before him as he ties up remaining loose ends. “You came here… for _solace?_ ”

If Ed were a more sentimental man the term 'adorable' might spring to mind at the smile Lucius gives the question and the way he immediately tries and fails to quash it by ducking his head.

Lucius must elect to abandon the struggle because he keeps the smile when he looks up.

“In a way,” he nods.

So, seeing Ed comforted was a means of taking comfort?

“Ha!” Ed grins. How delightfully circular. A tidy ouroboros of logic.

Oh. And it also means –

“So I was right.” Ed strides over to poke Lucius in the chest in triumph. “You do have an agenda.” He lifts his chin, smug with pride. “So much for compassion.”

Lucius meets the gaze. Unflinching.

“Can't I have both?”

From anyone else this would sound desperate. A weak and worthless argument Ed would scoff at.

But from Lucius it's check and mate.

Ed's pride drains away, but his smile remains as he dips his head, conceding the point.

“Why me?” he asks, calmer now he has a better grasp of the situation and willing to indulge his curiosity. “There must be plenty of unattached men –" He pauses. Does Lucius have a preference? Without further intel Ed has no way of knowing. “Or women,” he adds to be safe. “In equal, or indeed greater, need of care. Ones who've suffered many exciting traumas of their own I'm sure and would welcome the chance to share your embrace.” He moves back to the table as he speaks and relaxes against it, balls of his hands resting on the wooden edge either side of him. “Why not seek out one of them? It would have been easier. And safer. Why come to me?”

From the way Lucius narrows his eyes it seems the question has him as curious as Ed himself.

He twists his lips a moment. Thinking. Then, with eyes fixed on Ed, he asks –

“What's the chemical symbol for sulphur hexafluoride?”

“SF6,” Ed answers instinctively.

“The boiling point of acetic acid?”

“117.9 degrees Celsius. 244.2 degrees Farenheit.”

“The capital city of Latvia?”

“Riga.”

“Goldbach’s Conjecture?”

“A mathematical problem that states that any even integer greater than two can be expressed as the sum of two primes.”

“How many bones in the human body?”

“206.”

This is growing tiresome.

“When our sun dies, what size neutron star will it become?”

“Trick question. Our sun is below the Chandrasekhar limit so it won’t go supernova. Lucius what’s your _point?_ ”

Lucius flattens his lips around another smile.

“Do you know how many people in this city can answer those questions? All of them I mean.” Before Ed can determine if this is rhetorical or not Lucius is continuing. “Do you know how many people in _the world_ can answer them as fast as you?” Again, Lucius presses on before Ed has the chance to offer an opinion. “I have spent a lifetime in academia and I can count the number on one hand.” He holds a hand up for reference. “And it doesn’t include me,” he adds, moving closer, wide eyed and earnest. A bold, unapologetic rating of Ed’s intellect above his own that takes Ed’s breath away. “Regardless of what you’ve done,” Lucius goes on, curling his fingers to his palm, top knuckle slightly higher than the rest and aimed in Ed’s direction. “You have a brilliant mind, Ed. And watching you use it is extraordinary.”

This time Lucius does pause and there’s a hundred quips Ed could make in the opening – _obviously, of course, I know, you don’t say_ and so on. But he’s lost in the genuine, unprompted _truth_ of the words. The simple belief in the other man’s gaze. So he doesn’t say a word.

“Why did I come here?” Lucius shrugs. “It’s not a riddle.” His eyes twinkle, playful for a moment before his stoicism masks the fact. Does Lucius have a hidden identity inside of him as well? “I came because I wanted to spend time with someone whose company I thought I might enjoy.”

This is more and better recognition from the man than Ed could possibly have hoped for. He should be preening under the attention.

But instead he’s flustered.

“I –” His fingers tap the underside of the table in a pattern that grows involved enough to be distracting, so he pushes away and holds the thumb and fingertips of both hands together to keep them still. “I’m flattered. But –” In the absence of the table his fingertips start tapping against each other. “Lucius we – you –” He interlocks his stubborn, still moving fingers and presses them to his lips, sliding the knuckles to his chin so he can speak over them. “Our time together so far hasn’t exactly been… I mean, you barely know me. Why would you think you’d enjoy my company?”

Why is he questioning this? This is a gift horse, he should enjoy it while he can. And besides, why _shouldn’t_ Lucius value his company? He’s every bit the genius the other man describes. _Anyone_ should be _grateful_ to have the chance to experience his brilliance.

And yet despite the logic there’s a flutter back in his stomach that continues to grow – not butterflies this time but a whole cavern of bats unfurling. Because he isn’t certain. Still can’t be sure this gift isn’t a Trojan. And it matters to him suddenly, it matters terribly – _madly_ – that it isn’t, that this is real.

“We may not have met often. But I can assure you that each time you left an impression,” Lucius tells him. “And I know you better than you think. I’ve been reading your evidence reports at the precinct.”

“You have?” Ed drops his hands in shock. Not even the detectives he’d written them for read those most of the time.  

“Of course,” Lucius nods. “If I wanted to be good at my job I needed to know how my predecessor ran things. I must have looked through, oh, twenty or so, maybe more.”

“Twenty?” Ed squeaks, coughing after to try and cover the unmanly pitch.

“I like to be thorough.”

Ed’s surprise is unwarranted. As Lucius says, reading the reports was only logical. And they’re just reports, it’s not like the man has been rifling through a journal or a diary.

But there’s still a level of intimacy in the act that keeps Ed blushing. Because Lucius had actively chosen to educate himself on Ed’s work.

And perhaps - had he used his spare time for the purpose?

An image pops, fully formed, into Ed’s mind – Lucius in bed, sitting upright with blankets pooled at his lap and one of Ed’s files open in his hands. Chest bare. Pages brushing his skin as he wets a delicate finger and reaches over to turn them. His thoughts in that moment on Ed and nothing else.

And what had those thoughts been exactly, Ed wonders, blushing deeper.

“And?” he asks, too eager to be nonchalant.

“Your prose can be overly elaborate,” Lucius answers. Critical, but soft. Almost a tease. “But your work was efficient, your deductions insightful and your methods inspired.”

It’s all Ed can do not to giggle like a schoolboy. The best he can manage is to limit his delight to an open smile and short breath of laughter.

“A lot of convictions rested on your findings. And the way I process evidence makes use of many of your ideas. You were very good at your job, Ed. It’s a shame that –”

Lucius bites off the rest and just like that the moment turns sour.

“It’s a shame that _what?_ ” Ed prompts, smile gone, the warmth inside him extinguished.

A shame that he’d gone crazy? That he’d lost his mind and turned out to be a psychopath?

“It’s a shame that we never got the chance to work together,” Lucius answers, slow and sad with nothing but truth in his eyes, melting Ed’s bitterness away. “I think in a different world, another lifetime, we might have been –” He stops. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter. This is the life we have, there’s no point dwelling on hypotheticals. And –” He takes a breath, blinks, and he’s all business. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time than I already have.” He nods. A goodbye. “I’ll leave you alone.”

With a last, flat smile Lucius starts to move away. Finally acting on Ed’s non-verbal cues precisely when Ed is rethinking his former reticence towards the man’s presence. Why can’t the timing in Ed’s life ever be _right?_

“Wait.” He paces after Lucius and grabs him by the arm, stepping in close. “Didn’t you say you came here because you felt the world was changing?” Ed’s heart starts to race as Lucius turns his head, their faces inches apart. “This _is_ a different world,” Ed insists. “Whatever you think we can be – why can’t we? There are no laws here anymore. No rules to hold us back.” Not even our own, he thinks. “We can be whoever we want to be.” He pauses to wet his lips and Lucius flicks his eyes down to follow the gesture. “Do whatever we want to do.”

The breath Lucius draws in stutters.

“And who do you want to be, Ed?” he asks. “What do you want to do?”

More choices. Lucius is still trying to give Ed back the control that was stolen from him.

Only that’s not what Ed wants.

The realisation settles over him like an old, familiar blanket. A truth that’s been there all along, he just wasn’t aware of it until now.

He releases Lucius’ arm and slides in front of him.

“Tonight?” Ed answers, parting the flaps of Lucius’ jacket. “I’ll be whoever _you_ want me to be, Foxy.” He runs his hands down to the loops in the other man’s pants and hooks his thumbs inside, tugging so their hips press together. Lucius gives another stuttered sigh but doesn’t resist and Ed’s breathing grows faster as he leans in to whisper. “And I’ll do whatever you tell me to.”

A questioning set of lines group at the centre of Lucius’ forehead, a spark of concern in his eyes, and Ed gets it. But how can he explain why, after having his agency compromised for so long, he wants Lucius to take it away again? How can he give voice to something when he doesn’t fully understand it yet himself?

“Just…” he tries. “Just make it good.” It's the best he can do. All the words he needs are lost to him. The most he can add is a weak, almost frantic – “Please.”

Whether Lucius understands or not is impossible to say. But he nods, hands circling Ed’s wrists in a tender curl, which feels close enough.

“How about you kiss me,” Lucius tells him. “And we’ll take it from there.”

Relief floods Ed from head to toe, washing him clean of everything else until he’s weightless again, floating forward to obey. His lips feel scratchy and cold against the other man’s warm and subtle skin, but Lucius doesn’t seem to mind. He kisses back without reservation, guiding Ed’s hands about his waist and lifting his own, lips moving from Ed’s mouth and up his cheek as he draws Ed closer to whisper further instructions.

Warm arms around his shoulders. Calming words in his ear.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning Ed wakes up curled on the same mattress he’d once fitted with lockable straps in a desperate bid to keep himself under control.

There are no straps now, he doesn’t need them anymore, but ironically he finds himself more efficiently constrained without them. For instead of the weight of padlocked loops of biting leather his naked body is circled tight by a strong and safe embrace, legs in a welcome tangle with the ones Lucius has bent over and behind him.

Ed folds his arms across the ones about his chest and smiles, savouring this more successful, and decidedly preferable, method of restraint.

He doesn’t remember the last time he felt so rested, but what he does remember is every delightful detail of the night before. Which makes it the first night since the bridges blew he’s confident he hasn’t experienced any lost time. His only black out had been the natural drift into slumber he and Lucius had succumbed to together after falling, breathless and spent, against the pillows and if Lucius is still here holding him Ed knows with complete certainty he can’t have gone roaming in his sleep. Lucius wouldn’t have let him.

The blankets aren’t what you’d call quality – snatched from wherever Ed could find them they are patchy, stiff in places and they smell, well, the opposite of fresh. Likewise the mattress itself has seen better days with its loose threads at the corners and the way it sags in the middle. But to Ed, lying in that makeshift bed in the middle of an abandoned library in the ruins of a fallen city feels like Heaven and he wishes he could stay here like this forever, promises to Oswald be damned.

But as always, fate has other ideas.

It takes him a while to notice because he’s busy listening to the regular in and out of Lucius’ breath, shifting now and then to better feel the heat of it against his neck, but after a minute or two it becomes apparent something is beeping.

The sound is quiet but persistent. And close.

Is it behind him? No. Below him.

Ed frees an arm and rifles under the blankets, patting around his legs and over the crumpled fabric of Lucius’ pants.

Besides the removal of his gloves Lucius, unlike Ed, had remained clothed nearly the whole night, dedicating all his time, attention and instructions to seeing Ed thoroughly debauched. A surprise, as Ed had been fully prepared for Lucius to use the power bestowed on him to have Ed tend to _his_ needs. But it was only right at the end that Lucius stripped off his jacket and shirt and unbuttoned his fly, kneeling over Ed to see to himself. Ed, still sticky and shaking, had to ask if he could help and even then Lucius was hesitant. ‘Do you want to?’ he’d panted, over and over, when that wasn’t the _point_ , wasn’t what the thing was about. Eventually, lost in passion, Lucius had muttered instead ‘tell me you want to,’ which was acceptable. It was an order Ed had followed with gusto, aiding Lucius to his own completion in a multitude of satisfying and inventive ways, and by then the other man was too desperate to worry about his remaining clothes. So after the clean up he’d cuddled up beside Ed with pants and socks and shoes still on.

It doesn’t take long for Ed to identify the source of the beeping as a small, palm-sized device in Lucius’ pocket and with phones down and radio contact unreliable it’s not hard to surmise this as some alternative means of communication Lucius must have devised for himself.

He twists round in Lucius’ arms so they’re face to face.

Lucius mutters something soft and incoherent and shifts in his sleep to accommodate the change, arm settling across Ed’s waist and drawing him closer.

Comforting even in sleep.

The man is impossible.

Ed stops a moment to look. There’s a high probability he will not get the chance to see Lucius like this again so he wants to make the most of it. He almost reaches for his glasses, abandoned with his clothes, but the risk of disturbing such a picture perfect moment stays his hand. He can see well enough without.

Lucius is always calm, but in sleep he’s utterly serene and Ed can’t help stroking a hand over his smooth and carefree face, tracing circles with his fingertips – over his cheek, along his temple and into the short, tight curls of his hair.

If Ed doesn’t wake him, perhaps the beeping will stop and Lucius will be none the wiser.

Ed holds his breath.

The beeping doesn’t stop.

Stupid Ed. He should know by now that his happiness always comes with an expiration date. Might as well get this one over with.

“Lucius,” he breathes, brushing his palm over the other man’s hair and round the back of his neck. “Lucius.”

“Hmmm?”

Lucius rubs against Ed’s hand like a cat, eyes blinking open.

Or no, not like a cat.

“Morning foxy,” Ed smiles.

For a second or two Lucius continues to blink, languid and unfocused. Then his gaze falls on Ed and stays there.

“Good morning,” he answers.

Although he’d never admit it, there are times when Ed finds Lucius unreadable.

Even under copious amounts of pressure the man has an uncanny ability to reign himself in, bury his true feelings under a mask of indifference. Ed has grown increasingly aware of this ever since his three riddle game where Lucius maintained a cool demeanour throughout, regardless of how close Harvey Bullock came to plunging to his death.

It’s a bland kind of performance and not one Ed favours, but he can’t deny Lucius is skilled at it.

Of course, no mask is perfect, they always slip sooner or later and the one Lucius dons is no exception. But those moments are enviously minimal. At times of focus, when Lucius is really trying, he becomes an enigma of a kind The Riddler can only dream of.

Now is not one of those times.

Now Lucius is an open book, all soft smiles and warm eyes. He’s as relaxed as he had been in sleep with his thumb rubbing idle patterns over the small of Ed’s back and any fears Ed might have been harbouring that Lucius would regret their intimacy come daylight melt away.

“What’s that noise?” Lucius murmurs, hand lifting from Ed’s skin to rub his eyes. Ed tries not to shiver at the loss.

“You’re beeping,” he says.

Lucius frowns. Then his eyes grow sharp and he moves his hand beneath the sheets.

“I figure either you’re about to explode,” Ed jokes while Lucius retrieves the device. “Again.” Ed giggles, trying to ignore the sombre press of the other man’s lips as Lucius examines the machine’s small LED display. “Or someone’s attempting to contact you.”

The truth is obvious, but Lucius nods in confirmation regardless.

“I have to get back to work,” he says, ending the beeping with a sequence of taps across the machine’s surface that Ed doesn’t bother to follow.

“Back to work,” Ed mutters as Lucius extracts himself from the blankets and sits up, tucking the device back in his pocket with one hand while he searches the floor for his missing clothes with the other. “We live in a literal, apocalyptic wasteland, and you still act like you have a real job.” Lucius has his shirt on now, already tucked in and halfway buttoned up. This is happening much too fast. Ed misses the sight and feel of the other man’s smooth and silky skin already, so he hauls himself up as well and wraps his arms around Lucius’ waist, tugging the fabric loose again. “You’re adorable,” he says, nuzzling Lucius’ neck and kissing round his ear.

“Hmmm…” Lucius hums, tilting his head to give Ed better access. Encouraging. “That’s not what you were calling me last night.”

Ed chuckles.

“I didn’t hear you complaining,” he answers, capturing the fleshy part of Lucius’ ear with his teeth. When Lucius sighs, still not fighting, Ed begins to wonder if he might be able to maintain this amorous connection between them after all. “Maybe this time…” He slides his hands under Lucius’ shirt and pushes one lower, beneath the other man’s belt and down. “I can be the one making you scream profanities.”

He manages to reach soft curls and heat before Lucius grabs his wrist.

“Enough,” Lucius breathes, pulling Ed’s hand away and twisting free. “I have to go.”

He turns to meet Ed’s gaze and squeezes his palm, lips folding down in apology, before letting go and reaching for his jacket.

“Why?” Ed presses as Lucius shakes the worst of the creases from the fabric and slips it over his shoulders. “Why spend so much time and effort trying to save a world like this?” Lucius returns to fixing his shirt, tucking it back in and picking up where he’d left off on the buttons. But Ed is damned if he’s going to give up on the man now when there might still be a chance to keep him. “A world where the government abandons its own people,” he adds. “Or blows them up.” Surely a man as smart as Lucius can see the futility? “What’s the point?”

Lucius pauses, hands on his top button.

“If the authorities won’t do what’s right,” he says. “Then someone else has to.”

“So let someone else do it.” Ed shuffles forward and grabs Lucius’ hands, turning him round. “And stay here instead.” He leans closer, wrapping Lucius’ arms around his neck and kissing his cheek. “Where it’s warm.” Kiss. “And safe.” Kiss. “Well. Mostly.”

His mouth finds the corner of the other man’s lips and Ed takes Lucius’ face in both hands as he kisses there to hold him in place. But he needn’t have bothered because Lucius doesn’t struggle. Instead his arms tighten about Ed’s shoulders and pull him closer.

Is this working? Does he actually get to keep this?

The way Lucius links their hands as he pulls away and kisses Ed’s fingers doesn’t feel like an end.

“Why don’t you come with me?” Lucius asks. He shrugs like it’s casual but Ed can feel his grip tighten. “With a mind like yours you could do a lot of good. It could make all the difference.”

Still dazed from kissing Ed just grins.

“You’re a sly fox, aren’t you?” he murmurs. “But flattery will only get you so far.” He frees a hand to bop Lucius on the nose. “I told you, I’m not going to put my life on the line again when I don’t have to.”

“You wouldn’t have to,” Lucius insists, taking the hand he’s still clasping into both of his own and drawing it to his lap. “We have more than enough people risking themselves on the front lines. What we need is more of us who see the bigger picture. Who can determine where and when to concentrate our efforts. Ed, you excel at identifying ways in which different moving parts can work together. You would be uniquely qualified.”

Compliments on his intellect are always welcome, but it’s the way Lucius says ‘more of _us_ ’ that makes Ed the most proud.

It’s a lovely dream. But Lucius is forgetting one thing.

“Hmmm, yes. I’m sure your colleagues at the GCPD would be delighted to accept help from a wanted criminal and cop killer.”

“Why not?” Lucius argues. “We’re already working with Ms Kean. We even worked with Penguin. These are desperate times.” He reaches forward with his free hand to grasp Ed’s shoulder. “I’m not saying you’d be welcomed with open arms,” he admits. “But we need all the help we can get, even if it means overlooking past convictions. It’s like you said – this is a new world. It could be an opportunity. A chance at a new life. A fresh start.”

For one bright, glittering second Ed can see it –

The two of them in his old lab, finding new and ingenious ways to rebuild the city together; suspicious glances and muttered insults fading by the day with Lucius at his side; former enemies forced to swallow their doubt as Ed’s guidance brings about the fabled reunification they’re all so desperate for.

Gotham not a prison like Oswald thought but a place of transformation, of rebirth, of endless possibility.

Then the vision flickers and fades into static. An old movie stuck on loop.

Because this isn't new.

He’d already helped guide and protect the city as Oswald’s Chief of Staff and later in the Narrows as Lee’s right hand and what had that brought him in the end but pain and heartache?

Riddle – how is what Lucius offers him any different?

Answer – it’s not.

Ed remembers the taste of the other man’s skin, the circle of his arms, hands round his thighs, and oh he _wishes_ the dream was as real as Lucius’ eager eyes want it to be.

But no.

Oswald was right. He usually is.

There is no hope, no future, in Gotham anymore.

The _only_ chance for a fresh start lay _outside_ the city.

And even if he could convince Lucius of this. Even if he could persuade Oswald to allow a third party to join their escape, should he ever get round to formulating a plan for it. That look in the other man’s eye – he’s seen it before. On Lee, in the Narrows.

It’s that same mad idealism. Same rigid, unrelenting compulsion to try and save something that can't be saved. The same delusional belief they can actually make a difference.

Lucius can’t leave Gotham. No more than Lee could.

Though at least he’s had the decency never to suggest otherwise.

As Ed watches, the brightness in Lucius’ eyes starts to fade and he pulls away, reading the answer in Ed’s expression.

He gives Ed’s shoulder a final squeeze before pushing to his feet.

“If you change your mind,” he says. “You know where to find me.”

Ed can’t reply. There’s a lump in his throat he’s afraid he might choke on if he tries.

He can only sit there, blankets clutched to his chest, as Lucius dusts himself off and makes a half-hearted attempt to knot his tie before giving up and stuffing it back in the jacket pocket he’d found it. He doesn't bother with his gloves.

“You, uh,” Lucius starts, glancing back. “You should make sure that wound stays clean.” He points to the back of his head to indicate the wound he means. As if there were another. “Use antiseptic, if you can find any. So it doesn’t get infected.”

Ed’s eyes start to sting so he bites his lip as he nods to distract from the feeling.

Then Lucius is turning and walking away. Leaving. Or rather, not leaving.

That’s when it strikes Ed that if he makes good on his promise to find a way to escape the city this could be the last time he sees the other man. Ever. Just when they were starting to know each other.

It doesn’t seem fair.

“Lucius,” he chokes, one hand reaching out across the mattress.

Lucius turns and Ed thinks maybe his eyes look a little wet as well as he moves them down. Maybe. Or maybe it’s the light. Either way he’s waiting. Ready, as always, to listen to whatever Ed has to say.

“I wish –” Ed swallows. “I wish I'd met you… before.”

He’s not even sure what he means.

Before the city became what it is? Before he’d killed Kristen and Tom Dougherty? Before he’d met Oswald? Before he’d joined the GCPD?    

Whatever it is, Lucius is nodding like he understands so it must have made sense.

“So do I,” Lucius answers, gaze steady but with a tremble in his voice he makes no attempt to hide.

When he turns away this time Ed lets him go, pressing his eyes shut until the footsteps fade so he doesn’t have to watch. Then, once he’s certain there’s nothing left but silence, Ed wipes furiously at his eyes as he opens them, determined not to indulge in a single tear. He even slaps himself a couple of times to make sure.

Come on, Ed. Get it together.

What's he got to cry about anyway? He wasn't even stabbed this time.

But still - he can’t help reaching out to the empty space beside him once more, seeking a warmth no longer there.

He may not have been stabbed. But he still feels gutted.

And what did he expect? This is what always happens. Just when he thinks he’s pieced himself back together life finds a new way to rip him apart. Every time. That’s just the way it is. Nothing he can do about it.

But there’s still Oswald. Always, always Oswald.

Oswald will fix him, like he did before.

Then the two of them will leave this city and all its bitter, painful, complicated memories and emotions behind them and everything will be different.

Yes. Oswald’s the one. He won’t falter. He’ll get them both out of here and finally set Ed free, all of him this time not just a part.

That is, providing Ed dispenses with the mawkish distractions and actually finds them an escape route.

If not, then that damnable pier is likely to be the closest to leaving the city Ed will ever get.

Thank goodness they’ll be able to avoid _that_ this time. Oswald had tested the mines in the river quite thoroughly and Ed’s research supported his findings – escaping across the water was firmly ruled out as an option.

Ed hugs his blanket tighter. It’s hard to imagine how he ever found that cold and lonely spot a pleasant one. Now it’s nothing but two near deaths, a bittersweet goodbye and something he still can’t think about without feeling sick to his stomach.

The gun, the shot and the blood. The knot in his chest as he watched Oswald sinking down and down and down. Deeper and deeper.

Wait.

Ed scrambles to his feet, wrapping blankets about him like a toga to keep out the chill while he swipes his glasses from the table and hurries to the library catalogue.

If they can’t go _over_ the water –

He balances his glasses on the end of his nose and runs his fingers over the drawers, tutting impatiently as he searches for the one he needs. There! _L-T, Science and Technology_. He pulls it open and rifles through, grabbing the relevant card with a triumphant ‘ha!’

_Submersible. See also – submergible, submarine, warship, U-boat_

They can go _under_ the water.

It’s perfect. Poetic even. Oswald has escaped death this way twice already, in true deference to his namesake. It’s only fitting Ed should accompany him for a third and final time.

Now, one of the shelves listed here has got to have blueprints or schematics. He just needs to find the best one for navigating mines and they’re all set.

And maybe, once they get to the mainland, he could send Lucius a postcard.

Nothing fancy. Maybe not even a riddle. Just something short and sweet, to show he hasn’t forgotten their time together.

 _Dear Foxy,_ it would start.

_Wish you were here._


End file.
